


renewal of vows

by apotheosizing



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games), Dark Souls I
Genre: Dark Souls-Typical Morally Ambiguous Gods, Devotion, Gen, Relationship Study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:55:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25401967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apotheosizing/pseuds/apotheosizing
Summary: > Join Covenant? (abandons former covenant)[ YES ]NOOr, two oaths exchanged between the Dark Sun Gwyndolin and her knightess.
Relationships: Darkmoon Knightess & Dark Sun Gwyndolin
Comments: 8
Kudos: 18





	renewal of vows

**Author's Note:**

> I love these two - Gwyndolin in particular - so here's a fic about them that I wrote like a man possessed in one day.

She had once believed that she stumbled into the tomb by pure chance.

Of the two gargoyles that stalked the bridge to the keep, she had felled only one, having managed to keep its claws and teeth from gouging her battered armour by a concert of her estoc and parrying dagger. The second had pounced from the skies, forcing her back down the staircase at the centre of the bridge as she stayed on the defensive. Like a battering ram, its tail curved through the air with deadly force. She evaded the strike by moving toward it and dodging its answering claws to find herself at its back. Its tail struck the bronzed head of the tower's rotary lever and the ancient gears gave way with a clunk, pulling a dire howl from the creature.

Before it could turn to face her, she threw her full weight against the rotary mechanism in the vain hope that the tower might descend deeper. If she ran down the steps she could put enough space between her and the gargoyle to allow her a drink from her dwindling supply of Estus. There was a horrible moment where the tower did not move and the terror of facing another death gripped her mind before the structure began to move around her. Her body reacted even as her thoughts fought to claw her out of the despair that had engulfed her. She dashed down the stairs into a mausoleum of ashen stone.

She caught merely a glimpse of the space, whirling about to face the spiral staircase. She swallowed down a mouthful from her flask, adjusted her grip on her estoc, and stood in wait for the gargoyle's pursuit. It did not come. She strained to hear wingbeats or the grating of hindclaws against rock, any sign of the creature's whereabouts, to no avail. The minutes dragged until she deemed it safe to turn away from the stairs and examine the hidden chamber beneath the keep.

Her eye was drawn to the back wall, where the unmistakable visage of the Lord of Sunlight was cast in statuary. Blade in hand, he stared ahead unseeing and imperious. Other than the raised gravemarkers at the statue's feet, bearing the names of the fallen in a language she could not decipher, the mausoleum was empty. She sheathed her weapons, though her left hand lingered over the pommel of her dagger as she stepped forward. Unbidden, old tales of the doom that befell those who trespassed on the sanctity of the dead came to mind, stopping her short.

She weighed the relative benefits of resting a moment in the seclusion of the mausoleum against the childhood fear of reprisal from restless spirits, nearly convincing herself to ascend above to finish her duel with the gargoyle when the far wall vanished. A voice so ethereal that it shook the foundations of her soul emanated from the chamber itself. "Thou hast travelled far, undead. I would look upon thy face."

Her breath came short, a distant panic nestling in her limbs. A conviction that the voice would brook no disobedience seized her. She fought to keep herself from trembling as she passed through the spot where the statue had towered over the room, allowing her to see into the short hallway beyond. A thick, curling fog filled the archway at its end, making her think of the breath of some great titan. An aged rug embroidered in purple and gold lay before the fog with four candles marking out its upper half. The wicks were burnt to blackened stubs and melted wax congealed in the fine weaving. Leaving the candles unlit, she knelt.

"Thine attire is that of a woman of faith. Dost thy distant land still revere the Lords of Anor Londo?"

She could not bring herself to speak, awe-strangled in the presence of one whom she was certain was a god. She nodded.

"The Dark Sun calls upon thee then to serve the gods of the golden city. I bid thee tend the bonfire of Anor Londo and hunt the enemies of thy Lords. Thou shalt live naught but in the shadow of their great light and keep it from those who would besmirch it. If thou art willing to walk such a path I, Gwyndolin, shall bestow upon thee my blessings."

The voice resonated with power enough to banish the doubts that crept into her heart at the revelation she had been shown. Assassins walked in the shadows of her beloved light, enacting the gods' will in their stead and taking the darkness of their designs unto their souls. Yet, in the cool dark of the tomb, she knew that there was great worth in doing so. The duties Gwyndolin offered her were the purpose she desperately sought to prevent her soul hollowing from the inside out. "I am willing," she said.

"Rise, my knightess. When thy hand touches the coiled sword of the bonfire, it shall be thine to keep. Bring our enemies reprisal in my name."

Silence reigned. She got to her feet and returned to the courtyard before the cathedral where she had seen the burnt sword buried in the ash. Without hesitation, she placed her palm against the steel and watched embers burst forth from below.

* * *

For uncountable days, she tended to the flames. Rarer and rarer was the occasion that an undead who sought to prove themselves worthy of the Lordvessel passed by her fire. She recited the same worn words to each one who spoke to her, knowing that she sent many of them to their doom. Else, she stalked heretics in the twilight of the gods and took from them their sins as her soul cleansed the darkness of humanity in the flames of the bonfire.

Once, when no pilgrim sat by the bonfire, she journeyed herself to the keep across the grand city to seek her own audience with the Queen of Sunlight. Knights who donned gold and silver to her brass parted at her approach. The gargoyle who had driven her unknowingly to seek shelter in the tomb did not stir from its perch. She suspected that it was Gwyndolin's hand that stayed the dangers of Anor Londo.

The audience chamber was blinding in comparison to the dark corners of the world to which she was accustomed. She would have believed that the sun itself sat behind Gwynevere's crown of brown hair if it had been suggested. As she had at the foot of the wall of fog, she knelt. Gwynevere's words washed over her like a pleasant summer breeze but they did not strike to her core as Gwyndolin's entreaty had done. She could not even remember the words themselves after she heard them, though the faint feeling of buoyant light filled her soul.

She turned to leave but was struck unmoving by the sight of another goddess in gold and white standing in the doorway. The streaming sunlight that poured over the throne caught in the golden trim of Her gown and there refracted like the shining edifice of the moon. It was not Her dazzling presence that shocked the knightess but that Her face, so often hidden by the crown She customarily wore, was visible. The family resemblance between Her and Gwynevere was evident in Her eyes - they bore the same vibrant gold - but Her white hair was cropped short and she could not imagine the warm smile of Her sister in place of Her brooding aspect.

Gwyndolin spared a glance at Gwynevere, a glittering in Her eyes that the knightess felt had little to do with the harshness of the light, before speaking. "I see thou hast found my sister." Her voice rang out with the same authority She had wielded in the tomb. "I presume thy curiosity overpowered thy sense."

For a heart-stopping moment, she feared she had offended Her. "I didn't intend -," she began.

Gwyndolin raised a hand to silence her. "Thou hast committed no wrong," the goddess clarified, "but her words do thee little good. Thou art my blade and shouldst stay at my side. Fear not, one who is capable of succeeding Lord Gwyn will come." An unfathomable feeling clouded Her eyes and the knightess was overcome with the revelation that she was not the only one in Anor Londo who tended to its fires.

Something fierce took hold in her soul, banishing by parts the agony of the gnawing teeth of humanity that had taken root with her vow. It might have been empathy or purpose or zeal, she could not define it cleanly along such lines. "Of course. I pledged to you long ago that I would keep the bonfire. I intend to keep that promise." She removed her helmet, revealing her face as the goddess had asked her to do on their first meeting. The youthful lines of her features had not changed but the dregs of humanity now festered beneath her skin.

Gwyndolin surveyed her impassively, Her form regal and stiff. To the knightess' untrained eye She seemed to hold Herself in anticipation, awaiting Her blade's next words. She drew her estoc from its sheath and there was a breath in which she prayed She would interpret her intentions correctly. To her relief, Gwyndolin did not move to strike her down. She held it, hilt to tip, in her gauntleted hands like an offering before the last goddess of Lordran. Gwyndolin reached down to hold the blade where the knightess relinquished it and in Her hands it seemed to gleam all the brighter. "With this sword, I renew my covenant. I will serve you until true death or until you deem me unworthy." Her voice wavered on the final word, the shadow of self-disgust hanging over it.

The light that glimmered over the blade shifted from gold to a soft blue, reminiscent of the curtain of twilight once hung in the skies when the world was whole. Gwyndolin returned it to her with care. A faint glow lingered on after Her touch left it.

Gwyndolin's expression had turned again unreadable, until She spoke. "Until thy death, my knightess." In the blink of an eye, She was gone.

She knew then that her arrival at the tomb had been orchestrated, pitch for pitch; Gwynevere had not said a word.


End file.
